


prestidigitation/pathetic

by Anonymous



Series: not that kind of arrangement [4]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Do Not Archive, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink, This is shameless smut so we're going to ignore the fact that hamid definitely would have gagged, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, minor ep35 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It's embarrassing, how tightly he clings to Zolf. Or pathetic. Pitiful, maybe. Not that Hamid is going tostopholding him like this. Not for love or money.





	prestidigitation/pathetic

It's embarrassing, how tightly he clings to Zolf. Or pathetic. Pitiful, maybe.

Not that Hamid is going to _stop_ holding him like this. Not for love or money. Hamid is going to pull Zolf in against him as close as he can because maybe then everything will be okay. 

(Hamid wants Zolf to hold him and keep him safe and tell him he’s loved. He’ll settle for this. Settle for delusions of affection. He’s idealistic, not ignorant. He knows he’ll never get what he wants.)

Hamid kisses him desperately. He curves into Zolf with the force of it, so that there's no space between them at all.

Zolf breaks away, a hand on Hamid's shoulder. A hand on Hamid's hip. “Hey,” he rasps, “are you okay?” Hamid nods. He's not, but this _helps,_ this makes him feel _cared for_ even if it's just quick sex in a dark room. Hamid leans in, but that hand comes off of his hip and moves up to hold his cheek. “Hamid. You're shaking.”

(Hamid is always shivering. Sometimes it's from an imagined chill. Sometimes it's from imagining something else. Sometimes there isn't enough wine in the world to let Hamid sleep without nightmares.)

“Fine,” he lies through his teeth, “I just want—” he can't finish the sentence. 

(He wants a life where everything is perfect, and his parents are proud of him, and Zolf has both legs instead of just the one, and they can do this in a bedroom and not have to worry about being heard.)

“Want what?”

Hamid kisses him again, hard. He doesn't want to leave the wall he's pressed into. Zolf winds his hand through Hamid's hair and holds him where he is, and Hamid doesn’t know how he got this lucky. “You,” Hamid mumbles, maybe an inch away from Zolf’s mouth, “I want _you.”_ It’s soppy, and too much, and he’s said it before. Zolf makes this _noise_ , though, like he’s starving and Hamid is his last meal, so Hamid guesses he doesn’t mind.

(It's embarrassing, or pathetic, or maybe pitiful, how desperately Hamid clings to this moment. Clings to the feeling of Zolf's hand on his waist, on the back of his neck, of Zolf's lips on his throat, of the sigils on the wall pressing into his back. Clings to Zolf so tight he's sure there'll be bruises.)

(The first time, they had stumbled into Hamid's room at the Bloody Bulldog. It wasn't a good room, it didn’t have a good bed, but they made good use of it.)

Zolf isn’t delicate in the way he kisses. Not that Hamid ever expected him to be, but he isn’t _harsh_ the way Hamid is used to. Somewhere in the middle, bordering on soft. Somewhere bordering on kind. Bordering on gentle.

(The second time had been after they'd gotten back from Other London. Everyone went to bed while they sat up and talked about something unimportant. And then something shifted, and Zolf was pressing him into the couch cushions, and Hamid was barely stifling all of the words he was trying to say, all of the noises he wasn’t trying to make because _no one can know about this_ is the rule he’s always done these things by.)

(It’s not that Hamid needs to be held in reality, but sometimes he... drifts. Sometimes everything goes wrong, and he daydreams about the candles he always loved to light, about the fire he always loved to play with. Sometimes everything goes wrong, and Hamid spirals into that separation. Sometimes everything goes wrong, and all Hamid can think about is when he tried to get the flame to flicker on his fingertips the way it did on the candle wick.)

(Zolf helped him stay grounded after Kew. Bertie had gone off with the man who had _broken into_ Hamid's apartment because that was _fine._ Sasha had disappeared out the window because she couldn't be bothered to use the door like a reasonable person and she had ‘stuff to do’. Hamid just couldn't keep himself together anymore. Zolf found him curled up in the corner of his bedroom, shaking noiselessly, trying to remember what it felt like when he’d set his hand on fire, and it hadn’t even hurt. Zolf had sat next to Hamid, not saying anything at all, until Hamid dragged himself into Zolf's arms.)

It was a mistake, the first time, easily excused as the alcohol.

(Zolf held him like Hamid was going to shatter in his hands. Hamid kissed him, shaky, and then stronger because it was easier to fall back into bad habits than to make better ones. The third time was after Kew, and it helped Hamid out of that separation.)

It was a mistake, the second time, excused as the leftover adrenaline.

_(Thank gods we're alive,_ said the scratches traced by Hamid’s overeager fingernails. _I'm so glad you're safe,_ said the bruises pressed into Zolf’s sides. _I was worried,_ said the marks Zolf had to cover up the next morning. Hamid didn't know how to say it with words.)

It was a mistake, the third time, flimsily excused as misplaced and misled affection.

This, now, the fourth time, can’t be excused at all. They’re sober, and there’s no adrenaline, any affection could be placed somewhere else than on the other’s shoulders. This time, it was a conscious decision: getting the null room key from Sasha, asking to be let in by the concierge, locking the door behind them and turning out the lights. 

And Hamid knows this, knows he won’t be able to pretend he’s doing this because it’s easy, but he still kisses back. He still wraps his legs around Zolf’s waist. He still pants as he’s held against the wall, as he’s held off of the ground. And it’s embarrassing, or pathetic, or maybe pitiful, how easily Zolf gets him to unravel like this, how Hamid is reduced to a mess in not-even minutes.

Hamid thinks, vaguely, that they should do this more often. Hamid thinks, vaguely, that it’s going to be difficult to Prestidigitate himself clean again while he’s in this room. Hamid thinks, vaguely, that he probably ought to invest in some decent foundation for the marks he’s going to have on his neck. And then Zolf presses a calloused finger into him and all Hamid really thinks is _yes_ and _please_ and _more._

“You like this?” Zolf asks, hot breath on Hamid’s ear. He always asks. Hamid won’t ever understand how he can ask. Zolf’s hand stills. “Hamid, are you—” Hamid whines, doesn’t wait for the rest of the question before grinding on the hand still under him, still _in_ him. Zolf laughs breathlessly, stammers, “That’s a yes, then.” Hamid kisses him, off centre, on the corner of his mouth. He can’t see in the dark, can’t make out where exactly things are. So he tries again, open-mouthed and desperate. It’s embarrassing, the way he whimpers as Zolf slides his fingers in and out. Or it’s pathetic, how he curves into the other man. It’s pitiful, maybe, how he moans into Zolf’s mouth.

(Hamid isn’t selfish in bed, not by a long shot, but he falls to pieces under Zolf’s hands. He can’t focus on anything other than the fingers stretching him open, other than the thumb rubbing steady circles into his clit.)

Zolf’s other hand is settled firmly on Hamid’s waist, holding him fast. Hamid lets his head fall back against the wall, and he’s _so_ close. “Zolf,” he whines, and no, that isn’t loud enough, _“Zolf,_ I’m—” he bites back a moan as Zolf quirks his fingers.

_(Darling,_ he doesn’t moan. _Love,_ he doesn’t whimper. All of these names he almost calls. All of these names he can’t ever call. That’s not the kind of arrangement this is. And it _is_ an arrangement, now. It’s arranged, the way neither of them talks about this. It’s arranged, the way Zolf presses against him. It’s arranged, the way Hamid falls apart.)

It takes him a second to register that Zolf is saying words. “I know,” he’s murmuring into Hamid’s throat, “I know you are. I’ve got you.” And Hamid lets go, stifling some embarrassing noise or another into his fist. Zolf says something else, soft, but Hamid is loathe to make himself focus on the syllables. It’s embarrassing, how he spirals into that separation. Or it’s pathetic, how only the hand on his hip keeps him anchored. Pitiful, maybe, how he’s gone boneless and sleepy already. Zolf lets him down from the wall, and his feet are on solid ground again. 

He kisses Zolf, and _hell_ if the way Zolf bites on his lower lip doesn’t wake him up. Hamid asks, “What do you want?” because his brain isn’t quite working currently, because he doesn’t know how he’ll _choose_ without direction. Zolf laughs like all of the air has been stolen from his lungs. And that’s not an answer, and Hamid needs an _answer,_ and he _knows_ this, but he gets distracted regardless. 

Zolf doesn’t seem to object to Hamid’s wandering mind, though. “I,” he starts, shaky, “I want—” Hamid mouths at his collarbone— _“fuck,_ you’re making it hard to think.” Hamid makes some noise that might be either a purr or a self-satisfied rumble. Maybe some combination. Zolf groans, and it might be either frustration or the hand Hamid has just pressed against his dick.

Maybe some combination.

It’s embarrassing, or pathetic, or maybe pitiful, how much trouble Hamid has choosing what he wants to do. Because he wants _everything,_ he wants Zolf _however he can get him._ But that’s a bit much, and he only has so much time. So Hamid takes him and turns him so they’re reversed, so Zolf’s back is to the wall, so Hamid is pressing into him. 

(It’s arranged, the way Hamid kisses him with teeth and with tongue.)

Then Hamid sinks to his knees, and Zolf honest-to-gods _gasps._ “Fuck, Hamid,” he breathes, and Hamid hums in acknowledgement. The lights are out, but Hamid knows how to unfasten the buttons on Zolf’s trousers pretty well by now. “You’re so perfect, you’re _amazing.”_ Hamid burns under the praise even as he sets about dealing with Zolf’s smallclothes. “Gods, you look beautiful, you’re so fucking sexy, I don’t– _oh, fuck me.”_

_Always so eloquent._ Hamid would laugh if his mouth weren’t a bit busy. Maybe he’d have a witty rejoinder, but probably not. Probably for the better that he can’t do anything except bob his head. Zolf swears and grabs at Hamid’s hair. He doesn’t pull, though, just fixes his hand there as if it’ll anchor him. And Hamid isn’t _experienced_ with this sort of thing at all, but he knows how to put on a show.

He doesn’t know where Zolf’s eyes are, so he doesn’t make eye contact as he leans forward, doesn’t make eye contact as he feels Zolf’s cock hit the back of his throat, doesn’t make eye contact as he swallows around it. Doesn’t make eye contact when the hands in his hair _tighten_ and _pull_ and he moans in response. 

Zolf swears, more loudly than before, and Hamid hears a _thunk_ that might be Zolf’s head against the wall. It fills Hamid with no small amount of pride, knowing he can do this. Knowing _he_ can get _Zolf_ to unravel. “Hamid— fuck, you’re _perfect,_ you’re _so_ good—” Hamid makes some embarrassing noise or another at the encouragement. He pulls off with a wet sound and he doesn’t know if Zolf is looking at him as he presses a kiss to the tip, as he licks a long stripe along the underside, but the choked moan Zolf makes certainly cements that he’s _feeling_ it. 

“Fuck,” Zolf says, _“please,”_ and Hamid almost smiles. _Please, what?_ he might ask if he were particularly cruel or particularly clueless. But he isn’t cruel, and he’s clever enough, so he gives Zolf what he wants, swallowing him down. He focuses on the stretch of his jaw, on the weight on his tongue. _“Hamid.”_

(Hamid’s never really been one for religion, but he might say Zolf breathes his name like it’s a prayer. Like it’s a blessing. Like it’s something _holy.)_

Then salty, bitter liquid fills his mouth, and he might say it was actually said more like a warning. He pulls away and spits the cum on the ground. His face screws up involuntarily at the taste. “Eugh.” He gets to his feet, and he’s expecting to go and turn on the light so he can Prestidigitate himself presentable again, but there are arms around him and he has to hurriedly brace himself against Zolf’s chest. “Don’t kiss me, my mouth’s gross,” he warns.

Zolf, sounding incredibly dubious, says, “I mean, yeah, I just don’t really care.” Hamid gives him a mildly judgemental look. It’s difficult to say _that’s unsanitary and also gross_ with your eyes when you’re not even sure if you’re making eye contact, but it must work somehow, because Zolf says, “Shut up, come here.” Prestidigitation doesn’t quite work in this room, so Hamid can’t clean up before Zolf kisses him. There’s none of the rush from earlier, no desperation. It borders on _chaste,_ which might be the funniest thought that Hamid’s had all week.

(If asked, that’s the reason he’s smiling against Zolf’s mouth. If asked, it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s more than a little in love.)

Zolf has his arms settled around Hamid’s neck, and Hamid places his own hands on Zolf’s hips. He keeps kissing Zolf so he can have an excuse to be held.

(Not that Hamid has had arrangements like this with _many_ people, but he knows that this isn’t what happens next. He knows that usually, once both parties have come, they clean themselves up and then go about their day. He knows that usually, cuddling isn’t allowed.)

(Not that Zolf has never pulled Hamid in before. Hamid almost always finds himself wrapped up in Zolf’s arms, but it comes as a shock, every time. Hamid isn’t complaining, how could he? It lets him pretend that Zolf has feelings for him. It lets him pretend that Zolf wants this because he likes Hamid, not because Hamid is his only real option. And it’s embarrassing, or pathetic, or maybe pitiful, how _warm_ that fantasy makes Hamid feel.)

Zolf does pull back eventually. “We should probably be getting back,” he says.

Hamid tilts his head up, licks his lips, looks at where he’s pretty sure Zolf is with half-lidded eyes. “Yes,” he agrees, “probably.” Zolf kisses him again. 

“You’re not subtle,” Zolf scolds, and Hamid’s smile only grows. He winds a hand around the back of Zolf’s neck and pulls him closer. Zolf lets himself be pulled.

_(Mine,_ growls something from the depths of his subconscious. Hamid wants to stay like this forever, wants to walk back to the presidential suite arm in arm, wants to show the entire world that Zolf is _his.)_

(Except he _doesn’t,_ except Zolf _isn’t,_ and Hamid doesn’t know why some part of his brain is insisting otherwise. _No one can know about this_ is the rule he’s _always_ done these things by.)

**Author's Note:**

> The next two works are not going to be explicit, so you can feel free to skip over those.


End file.
